Voices on the Wind Open Theme
Tiny toads too many to count by Mark Vogel An oval red-gravel track encircles a toad drama under a bright sun that has coaxed new leaves from trees— and me and the dog, now out to play. Some would say this is a once in a lifetime sight, these opportunist baby toads three hundred strong who hop out of a pole vault pit transformed by spring rains into a pond. In-mass, small as raisons, they herk-jerk with a thousand communal jumps from the dark water, with no plan, but going anyway, toward the new lime-green grass as I kneel above them, transfixed, a Gulliver stalled, so I don’t murder a generation pushing on. What other exodus mornings have I missed, when eyes were too glazed to see, and I stayed within the comfort of a room? I worry about predators—birds, raccoons, snakes. Never mind stats, how many (never named) will be devoured as they move toward distant lands, relentless, never thinking about what could be. Wonder exists this fresh young morning. They don’t need my advice, this crowd hopping outside the flatness of time.